


The Endgame

by vallkryiie



Category: Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, i think I’m funny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 04:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15573360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vallkryiie/pseuds/vallkryiie
Summary: “You’re my wife,” Tony states, knowing full well the two of you are most certainly not married.“Where’s my ring, then?” You shoot back.(Or something like that.)





	The Endgame

“You’re my _wife_.” Tony says. As if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as if it’s basic-everyday-knowledge. As if he’s just told you that one plus one, equals two.

You squint your eyes. “First of all, we’re not even married.”

“We’re not?” He sounds genuinely confused.

You laugh, “Not at all.”

He raises a dark eyebrow, “Not even a little bit?”

Slowly, you set your cup of coffee on the glass table, now completely suspicious of Tony’s behavior. “What does a _little_ married even mean?”

Tony’s lips twitch into a smile. You can tell he’s trying to keep a straight face because he _can’t_ keep a straight face.

You lean back in the chair, tone flat at his flaky behavior. “Don’t tell me you’re planning on proposing.”

He doesn’t even seem phased by your hole-punching in his still _very_ definite plans. “Oh no, absolutely not. I’d lose my mind.” His tone is light-hearted and playful, which is the only reason why you don’t launch your lukewarm coffee into his glowing skin.

“Have you even _met_ you? Do you know you stubborn you are? Tsk, you’d probably kill me in my sleep.”

You roll your eyes, flicking passed a page of Steve Rogers’ mission report. “Which is very telling of who _you_ are, as a person.”

He smiles, “I require a lot of patience at my age.” 

“You’re a whole _grown_ man.”

“My point still stands.”

You peak up to where he stands, across from you and on the other end of the conference table, your expression almost amused. “A _child_.”

He shrugs, easy and smooth. Just like his voice. “Grown men act like children left and right in America. It’s even written in our constitution. Didn’t Fury teach you that before he shoved his job down your throat?”

You set the file down and look at Tony honestly. No roll of your eyes, no annoyance in your face. “I asked for this job. And I happen to be very _good_ at telling people what to do.”

“And it _happens_ to pay a very generous salary.”

“And what about it?”

Tony holds his hands up in surrender, tone serving as a white flag to your defensive words. “Oh, no! I’m glad you get paid well. Our kids will lead very comfortable, privileged lives.”

You blink, “Our kids? Weren’t you just talking about marrying me? How did we get here?”

Tony floats around the room in his theatrics. “So you _do_ want to marry me.”

You click your pen repeatedly. “Did you break your neck? Jumping to that conclusion?”

Tony takes your sass in stride, even feels a little thrill shoot up his stomach, “Why even bring it back up? If you really didn’t wanna marry me, you’d let the conversation go and bask in the freedom of its absence.”

You frown thoughtfully, “ _Or,_ maybe I don’t like discussing my pay check with men who could buy my house three times over and not even flinch.”

“Your condo is nice.” He turns, looking over the pieces of artwork you had James Buchanan Barnes hang up in exchange for safe refuge. “And we were talking about our kids: Little Anne and Little Peter.”

You jerk back, “You said that like you’ve _actually_ been inside of my living space before.”

Tony spins, looks you dead in the eyes. “Are we going to pretend that you didn’t have me over and cook a meal for me once?” He sounds _offended_ , almost. “Our first date and you’ve already forgotten— see, this is what I’m talking about—“

You sit up instantly, “Tony, that was an _accident_ —“

He shoves his hands into his suit pockets. “How does one _accidentally_ cook dinner for another person—“

“You _know_ you came over uninvited because you wanted to give me back those S.H.I.E.L.D. blueprints you _stole_ from my office. Don’t act bold.”

He tips his head in silent agreement, fingers wiggling restlessly inside the pockets of his trousers. He takes another glance in your direction and rolls his shoulders like he’s just made up his mind about something.

Tony takes quick and light steps towards the table and pushes his knuckles against the cold glass. He leans over, and the table isn’t wide enough to keep him from nudging into your personal space. His eyes move left to right across your the dips and curves of your face like he’s searching for something.

“So you’re telling me, if I proposed, right now, this very second, you’d look me in my eyes and tell me no? Is _that_ what you’re telling me?”

You take another sip of your coffee and glance up; your body language matches his tone: Nonchalance, _just_ teetering on the edge of forcefulness. “You’re gonna propose to me in the conference room? How unromantic. I deserve better than that, Anthony.”

Tony snatches the Starbucks cup from between your fingers — _“Tony, what the fuck!”_ — and makes haste for the door. He tosses the cup into the trash can, and you’re wholeheartedly contemplating calling security. You only decide against it when he turns back to you, and all of the playfulness in the air is sucked out of the room. 

He stands tall, but instead of his usual smirk of cockiness, it’s a frown of _sincerity_ that takes its place. Not even the hint of a joke lies between the lines on Tony’s face. A hitch in your breathing kinks in your throat as you realize you’ve upset him.

“I hope our children are at least, _twelve_ percent less dramatic than you are.” It’s an offering on your part, a truce-calling, your own white flag. You could never stand to see a baby cry.

“You’re the endgame for me, you know that?”

Your eyes narrow into slits. “Don’t play with me, Anthony—”

“You’re my _endgame_. The only one I want for the rest of my duration on this miserable planet.” He rambles on and on, coming up with — actually palpable — excuses as to why you should say no.

And finally, to Tony’s complete surprise, you _smile_. And it’s beautiful and genuine and so bright it makes Tony’s heart stutter. Makes him feel like he’s looking directly into the sun. Makes his palms sweaty, and his chest tighten, and makes him want to say it over and over again. 

_You’re my endgame. My last love. The first one to matter in a long, long time._

**Author's Note:**

> tony’s so fun to write.


End file.
